A Right Kind of Wrong
by sara-cupcaked
Summary: Grissom grows a backbone and Sara kisses a marine biologist. Post 9x05. GSR, trust me.


**A/N: **A big thank you to Keegan Elizabeth, for being a wonderful beta - and a very efficient one as well! I hope this piece makes those 'affected' by Leave Out All The Rest feel a little better.

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**A Right Kind of Wrong**

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"Would you stay?"

He hears her stop by the doorway, and for a moment he's filled with dread that she, like everyone else, will walk away.

A door shuts, and he exhales in relief.

"What do you want, Grissom?"

"Company."

"Is that all?"

He clutches the unfamiliar pillow and turns to stare into her questioning eyes. The pillow smells faintly of bleach, which brings his mind to Natalie and the car and the desert.

And, of course, back to Sara.

He wishes he can tell her all he wants to do is to sleep with her; simple, captivating Heather and forget all about complicated, _happy_ Sara.

He can sleep with Heather, and after that things will escalate to him living with her. They will drink tea in fine china everyday. No trips to the Galapagos Islands for Heather, just trips to Wedgewood for expensive porcelain teacups and pots and to Whole Foods for organic tea.

It will not be such a stretch, he thinks to himself, because Heather's eyes are the exact shade as Sara's, and they are both brunettes. He knows he can come to share his life with Heather, if he allows himself to, but all it can ever be is a pitiable substitute for the life he could have had with Sara.

He shakes the illusion by pressing his face into the silky pillow, breathing in deeply for the overpowering scent of bleach. He lifts his head to speak, seeking her eyes once more.

"I told Sara once that sex without love is pointless."

"It is."

"So company is all I ask for."

Heather nods.

"Sleep with me."

She can see in his eyes that he means just that and nothing more, and she nods once more.

"I'll have to blow out the candles first," she says softly. "I'll be back."

When she returns to the room, he's asleep, tucked comfortably between the crimson sheets. She spends a few minutes watching him sleep, wondering what is on his mind.

He sighs in his slumber, and she instinctively draws the blankets around him a little bit tighter. She doesn't climb into bed with him, nor does she leave. Instead she settles into the chair by his side and picks up the first book she sees by the bedside table.

Shakespeare's _Midsummer Night's Dream._

She reads quietly, until she reaches a quote that makes her glance at Grissom's sleeping form. Her heart aches a little, not only for him but also for a certain Sara Sidle.

'_The course of true love never did run smooth._'

--

Kissing a marine biologist is not quite like kissing an entomologist.

He smells faintly of cologne and sea salt, not of clean soap and fingerprinting powder like she's used to. He tastes of toothpaste and uncertainty, not like coffee and home. His skin feels cool to the touch, unlike the pleasant heat a certain entomologist radiated.

In simple terms, it feels_ wrong_.

"Cameron, I uh, can't do this, I'm sorry." She stammers as she pulls away, her palms sweaty.

He looks bewildered for a moment, and when he opens his mouth to speak, she braces herself for the worst.

"Why did you call me by my last name?"

She winces inwardly and feels the heat colour her cheeks. "Sorry, Phil, it's just… this bad habit of mine."

"Oh, it's okay. I didn't mean to kiss you; I didn't even ask if you were married."

"No!" she practically shouts, causing the people on the deck to turn and stare at her curiously. She inhales deeply and tries again, a calm in her voice this time.

"No, Phil, I'm not married."

Better.

"Good," he says relieved, running his fingers through his grey flecked hair. "Are you in a relationship?"

She stares into his green eyes and turns away to look at the vast open sea, twilight descending around them. She finds it ironic that Phil, the marine biologist, has green eyes whereas Gil, the entomologist, has blue eyes.

Bugs, stereotypically, are green and the water is blue.

All that is wrong is right, and right is wrong.

"I don't know," she answers truthfully, turning back to stare into his right-but-wrong eyes. "Are you married?"

He gives her a small smile, one she knows only too well and feels a pang of something oddly familiar.

"Only to my job," he says and it hits her.

Grissom.

Cameron.

Entomologist.

Marine biologist.

Right.

Wrong.

She exhales, sending a thin wisp of almost visible air into the salty sky, watching it disappear under the brilliant sparkling stars.

--

He rouses to Heather's deep, soothing voice reciting something that sounded familiar, even through the haze of sleep clouding his mind.

"…So, either by thy picture or my love, Thyself away art resent still with me; For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, And I am still with them and they with thee; Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight—"

"—Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight," he murmurs and for a moment, it is as though he is back in New England with Sara on his mind yet again.

_Sara_.

Not even Heather's residence can rid his mind of Sara.

"Good morning," she says, shutting the book with a solid thud. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"Good morning, and no, it was the sun."

True enough, the sun poured into the room, strips of vertical rays painted against the wall.

"I'm practicing this for Alison, she appears to like Shakespeare," she explains, smoothing her fingers over the worn cover

"Were you in here the entire night?"

"Yes," she says, toying with the rough edges of the pages, looking slightly uncomfortable. It is unnerving, and his palms start to sweat. "You spoke of Sara."

"Right."

"And you spoke of a…marine biologist?"

Again, Heather looks at him questioningly, and he shrugs.

"Sara told me she met one that reminded her of me on the ship."

She nods wordlessly and he climbs out of bed, weary once more. "Thank you for this," he says and gestures in the general area of the room. "For being with me. I, uh, need to go back to work now."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"You're not my therapist, Heather," he reminds her once more.

"Said as a friend."

"I'm fine."

He holds her gaze, a clash of blue and brown, neither one yielding.

"How many times have you told that lie, Grissom?"

"Enough times to almost believe it myself."

She sighs and asks him to stay for breakfast. Tea, she says, and suspended in that bubble of time Sara stares back at him, eyes ever so hopeful.

A phone rings, and the moment is broken. He realizes three things at once: Sara is gone; Heather is _not_, nor ever could be, Sara; and work can never stay away.

Heather doesn't comment on the way he hesitates to answer the phone.

"Grissom," he answers diligently into the phone, like the dedicated supervisor he is. After a few moments, he flips the phone shut, shrugging once more. "It's Catherine. DB in Henderson, a B&E."

As he turns to walk out, Heather reaches out and grabs his arm lightly. "As Shakespeare once said, _'the course of true love never did run smooth.' _Sara deserves more than this, and you can do better."

"Sara deserves to be happy," he says simply before leaving Heather in his wake.

--

She wasn't lying when she told him she could think here. She just doesn't know how true the rest of her 'speech' was.

She has the urge to call Greg, Nick, or maybe even Catherine to ask how she should proceed, but she already knows what Greg will say:

"You deserve better than this, Sara."

Deserving something and wanting something is different, she knows that only too well. She knows what she deserves from Grissom, at the very least, is a clean break. All he can offer her is to not make a decision, which is ten times worse than him making the decision.

And yet, she still wants him. The rational part of her mind is screaming at her to make a move for Dr. Phil Cameron, the marine biologist with clear green eyes, but another part of her is still holding fast to Dr. Gil Grissom, the entomologist with beautiful blue eyes.

It's what _can be_ versus what _has been_.

She wants to believe that deep within Phil's eyes, or any other person's eyes, lies her future. She wants to, she really does, but how can she when all she sees every day is the vast blue ocean, twinkling underneath the morning sun and glowing beneath the full moon, reminding her that her past, present and future are interconnected in a kaleidoscope of blue.

--

A nagging voice in his head repeats, "Sara deserves better than this, is this all you can offer her?" over and over constantly, threatening to bring another migraine.

Without hesitating, he presses the 'send' button and shuts the computer down and walks over to the medicine cupboard, popping his third migraine pill of the day.

--

In the ship's common room, a new notice is pinned on the corkboard.

"_The Sea Shepherd Galapagos Team is pleased to welcome its newest member, entomologist and ex-supervisor of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, Dr. Gil Grissom to Operation Mangrove. _

Sara reads it, stares, and rereads it once more.

_Ex-supervisor._

--

"Dr. Grissom, this will be your residence during your stay here." The petite blonde says, and he nods his thanks and offers her a smile.

His new 'residence' is small but adequate; it looks like the backdrop of Sara's video. A fridge, a single bed covered in deep blue sheets, and a little square window to the outside world. The only thing he can see is the never-ending sea and the distant horizon.

"Grissom?"

He turns around, his heart pounding to the steady lurches of the ship.

_Sara. _

"Sara."

He steps forward, but she doesn't move.

"I've made my decision."

"Not making a decision was your decision," she says quietly.

"Not anymore. I'm…I'm taking steps this time."

"That's a start," she says and offers him the tiniest of smiles, and he knows he's forgiven but not off the hook. "Welcome aboard."


End file.
